


Intro to Business

by AgentInfinity



Series: Porn!AU [10]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anxiety, Art, D/s, Hand Jobs, Light BDSM, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Restraints, Rimming, Suits, as described by someone who knows very little about art, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-26 17:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30109566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentInfinity/pseuds/AgentInfinity
Summary: Grantaire rests his forehead against Enjolras’ shoulder and just breathes for a few seconds, calming his mind and attempting to relax his body.  When he leans back, ready to find Courfeyrac and have him open the doors, Enjolras pulls him back in and brings his lips near Grantaire's ear.  “And if you make it through the night without ducking out early, I’ve got something special planned for you at mine.”  A quick peck on Grantaire’s cheek follows, and Enjolras is heading over to join Jehan, Combeferre, and Musichetta in their conversation.Grantaire is left confused and slightly hard but less anxious and more proud of himself than he’s been in months.  With one more deep breath and an adjustment of his undergarments, he finds Courfeyrac and motions at the doors.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Series: Porn!AU [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/84223
Comments: 12
Kudos: 28





	Intro to Business

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hey, after literal years of looking at this in my drafts, I finally finished Grantaire's gallery opening fic. I hope y'all enjoy it.

Grantaire stands in front of the gallery, _his_ gallery, and tries to take in the moment. It’s an hour and a half before opening night, and his head feels light and delirious despite his continued sobriety. The nerves forming a vice in his stomach have loosened momentarily as his chest swells. It looks truly stunning. The high windows installed in the front of the repurposed warehouse are glowing warmly from the many spotlights meticulously positioned by Jehan and him. He can see Courfeyrac and Combeferre chatting in front of one of Musichetta’s photographs placed in one of the front-most displays.

Then the crushing fear of failure pops back in, as it has frequently over the past year, and he decides to sit down on the bench outside the building to avoid falling when his legs give way.

Fingers shaking, he pulls his pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his dress slacks, slides one out and lights it, hoping to calm his nerves just a bit before he is forced to go inside and talk to people. It’s been a long year leading up to this night, going from no idea of how to do anything to having too many ideas and trying to narrow them down into something cohesive enough to call a gallery. He had to pull nearly all his savings out and still get a loan just to remodel the building he’d chosen to lease and to cover the bills until he could get it up and running.

The hardest part had been to find people suited to become partners with him in the venture, which turned out to be Musichetta, Combeferre, and Jehan, but between them, he trusted that they possessed enough business knowledge to keep him from failing immediately. So far, they had proved successful, working with both him and the artists interested in joining a new gallery with no reputation and an untested ball of anxiety at the helm.

The past year was in his top three of the most stressful times in his life, which, with his background really meant something.

On the positive side, his inspiration had soared, meeting and working with so many talented artists who were actually eager to jump into something so new. So far, he’d gathered sixteen artists in various media fields to become gallery members, giving him 800 dollars a month to work with plus a 25 percent commission on any art sold in the gallery.

The meetings he’d attended to come to a consensus on a monthly charge and a commission percentage still give him nightmares.

Grantaire hopes after tonight more artists will want to be a part of the cooperative and the gallery will be a few more steps closer to financially running itself. He’s not deluding himself, he knows it will be a long time before that happens, but the money he has access to is not endless, and if this gallery fails, he may very well just crawl into his bed and never leave.

With his cigarette burned down to the filter, he stubs it out on the side of the stone trash can next to him and throws it in, cautiously making sure it won’t ignite the trash inside and cause a flaming disaster to kick off his first endeavor into business. His hands aren’t shaking as badly, so he counts it as a win and heads inside before he can decide to chain-smoke through his entire pack. 

The lights are welcoming as he steps through the doors, starting out a bit dim but warm and getting brighter as he walks further into the gallery. It’s still early enough that only a few people are there. Jehan, Combeferre, and Musichetta are now convened near the back hallway close to the offices, Jehan gesturing lazily as the other two listen intently, concentration on their faces. It’s clear that the topic is business-related, and Grantaire makes a quick turn off to the right before any of them notice and pull him into the conversation.

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy making and executing plans for the gallery. It’s just that if he has to handle any more logistics before the place even officially opens, he might scream. Or just lie down on the floor and refuse to get back up again. Logistics just aren’t his thing. His brain is not commonly analytical. He can usually sense when someone he’s in a scene with needs a break or is becoming uncomfortable in an unexpected way. He knows just how long to flog someone to make them cry and thank him. He can judge Enjolras’ moods and thoughts with a near-perfect accuracy.

He will cry if he has to sit through another investors’ luncheon or budget analysis meeting any time soon. (He will have to do both of those things. Probably before the month is out. The tears will be long-flowing and plentiful.)

He finds himself in front of a sculpture done by Maritza, one of the artists who signed on early in the artist acquisition process. It depicts two women embracing tightly, their fingers grasping hard enough to indent each other’s flesh. Their eyes are closed, one’s face in ecstasy, the other’s grimacing in exertion. The two figures are bare save for a sheer sheet draped over their legs, tangled and forgotten. Other than the nudity, nothing explicit is happening. The expressions on their faces are the sole source of the intimacy felt from looking upon them. You can almost hear their pleas and panting and whispered words just from viewing it.

It’s one of Grantaire’s favorite pieces in the whole gallery. It might be one of his favorite pieces ever.

A sudden warmth envelops his back as arms snake around his chest and squeeze lightly. A familiar shiver alights on the back of his neck as Enjolras’ lips press a chaste kiss there.

“Grantaire, everything looks amazing. You’ve really outdone yourself.” Grantaire turns to face Enjolras and grins, self-deprecation spilling out as soon as he opens his mouth.

“It was mostly Jehan. I largely just pointed at things he did well while holding his ladder.”

“Shut up, Grantaire. Yes, you’ve had help, but this gallery is yours. It’s your own work of art, and I’m so proud of you I could bust.” Grantaire’s stomach flutters at that, simultaneously wanting to bask in the prideful tone of voice Enjolras is using and hide his face under a rock. He goes for deflection instead.

“You could bust, huh?” Grantaire waggles his eyebrows as Enjolras rolls his eyes and sighs. He’s doing better with the whole self-esteem thing, but tonight is a big night, it is THE big night, and it’s difficult to convince his brain of his triumphs on a good day, let alone a day when he is going to find out if he has spent the last year sinking all of his time and money into a failure.

“Stop it, Grantaire. This place is gorgeous. I don’t understand most art or what people see in it, but even I can tell that this place is special. You’re going to be fine, and tonight is going to be a success,” Enjolras informs him as if the alternative isn’t even something to consider. He releases his hold on Grantaire’s waist and moves to the side to inspect Maritza’s sculpture.

“What do you think?”

“It kind of looks like our faces when we fuck, but if we used telekinesis instead of our hands.” Grantaire lets a laugh burst out of his chest, the unexpected answer catching him off-guard and easing some of the tension in his body all at once.

“Well, you’re not wrong.” Grantaire chuckles and kisses Enjolras’ cheek. Enjolras grasps his hand and squeezes lightly, helping to abate some of the anxious trembling in his fingers.

“Combeferre wanted me to tell you that the caterers are all set up and ready to start whenever the doors are opened, and Courfeyrac wanted me to show you this.” Enjolras pulls his phone out of his pocket and hands it to him with a photo already open on it. “It was taken around the side of the building about two minutes ago.” A long line of people were waiting behind a rope, dressed formally and looking ready for a gallery showing.

“Oh my god, Enjolras, what?” Grantaire whispers as he lifts the phone closer to his face and inspects it. “I don’t understand.” There had to be at least fifty people waiting in line, possibly more out of sight around the corner.

“You don’t understand how so many months of hard work and compromise could result in such an amazing sight?” Enjolras slips his phone from Grantaire’s fingers, now shaking again, but out of shock more than nerves, and wraps Grantaire in a tight hug. “You’ve outdone yourself, R. I don’t know art, and even I’m impressed beyond belief with this place.” He pulls back from Grantaire and lifts his chin until he can look him in the eye. “I’ve always found art galleries intimidating and cold, but this place is warm and welcoming. You have created an environment that will pull people in and make them feel accepted. You are making a difference, and even if you can’t see it, all of us around you _can._ ”

Enjolras’ gaze is firm, but open and truthful, rooting Grantaire’s feet to the spot and making him feel exposed. The feeling is familiar, but typically when he feels this way, one or both of them is naked, and Grantaire is either sore or about to be sore.

With some effort, he shoves down the self-deprecation and musters the energy to give Enjolras a small smile. He _is_ extremely grateful that he has such a lovely support system, spearheaded by Enjolras and his righteous, fiery devotion. He also kind of wants to cry.

“Thank you, Enjolras. Truly. I mean it.”

“Of course, R.” Grantaire rests his forehead against Enjolras’ shoulder and just breathes for a few seconds, calming his mind and attempting to relax his body. When he leans back, ready to find Courfeyrac and have him open the doors, Enjolras pulls him back in and brings his lips near Grantaire's ear. “And if you make it through the night without ducking out early, I’ve got something special planned for you at mine.” A quick peck on Grantaire’s cheek follows, and Enjolras is heading over to join Jehan, Combeferre, and Musichetta in their conversation.

Grantaire is left confused and slightly hard but less anxious and more proud of himself than he’s been in months. With one more deep breath and an adjustment of his undergarments, he finds Courfeyrac and motions at the doors.

He can still feel Enjolras’ gaze on his back sending goosebumps across his shoulders, but when Grantaire turns around, he seems instead to be deeply in conversation with Grantaire’s other business partners.

Someone taps him on the shoulder just then, and without further ado, he begins his first exchange as an official gallery owner.

Surprisingly, the night passes easily in a blur of new faces and networking efforts. So many artists are interested in becoming members that he loses count, and with his pockets full of business cards and phone numbers, he ends the night sitting on the floor in front of Maritza’s sculpture once again. It would seem that he’s not the only one who is fed up with the current gallery situation in the city.

He hasn’t been able to talk to Enjolras in a couple hours, only catching glimpses of him from across the room before being pulled into another conversation or interview.

Grantaire sighs, feeling the exhaustion down to his bones. This event marked the culmination of over a year full of sleepless nights and meetings and proposals. The seemingly endless string of all the things that gave him anxiety had led to this one night of all those things wrapped into one event, and despite the fatigue and how well things had gone, the buzzing under his skin that he had suppressed all night is beginning to break through.

Musichetta, Joly, and Bousset had bid him goodnight a few minutes earlier, heading out together with wine-flushed faces and eyes only for each other. He can hear the low rumble of Combeferre’s voice interspersing with Jehan’s soft timber as they discuss the artists they had found to be a good fit to join the gallery. There will be a meeting on Monday to discuss which artists will be receiving an official invite, but for now, he has a blessedly unencumbered weekend. The first one in what seems like an eternity.

Grantaire doesn’t know what it will bring, but for tonight, he’s hoping for Enjolras to find him and reveal what his reward is for staying the whole night. He would have anyway, but it helps to know that someone understands how his brain works.

He doesn’t have to wait long before he feels a familiar grip on his shoulder. Tipping his head back, he enjoys the view it provides of Enjolras standing over him. Even when he feels like he might vibrate out of his skin, the sight of Enjolras, especially from this angle, helps tame the mess in his brain. Just a bit, but it’s often enough. Enjolras smiles down at him and then joins him on the floor, pressing his shoulder into Grantaire’s.

“You are fucking amazing, Grantaire,” he breathes, like it’s the truest fact in the world, like Grantaire himself is some deity and Enjolras can’t help himself.

“This isn’t my sculpture,” Grantaire informs him, knowing that he knows this and it isn’t at all what was meant. He doesn’t have to look over to see Enjolras turn his head slowly and bore his gaze into the side of Grantaire’s head. He can feel it. But the ebb and flow of his nerves are very much in the _flow_ portion of the equation suddenly, and he can’t quite stop the words from coming out of his mouth.

“I’m aware of that, R,” he assures.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t take it right now, E. I’m about five seconds from losing my mind.” He grips his hands together a little tighter and tries to breathe normally. A couple seconds pass as Enjolras finishes whatever kind of assessment he needs to do with his fucking pinpoint gaze. He rises to his feet in one smooth motion and pulls Grantaire along with him.

“Let’s head to your office,” Enjolras whispers, keeping his grip on Grantaire’s arm. It’s the one anchor point keeping him from flying into a ball of anxiety. Combeferre and Jehan watch them go but don’t say anything.

“I thought we were going back to yours?” Grantaire asks, allowing himself to be led to his own office.

“We are. Eventually.” Enjolras doesn’t elaborate, and Grantaire doesn’t press further.

The back hall was the last thing to be renovated to ensure that the main floor would be finished in case of any unexpected costs. There are several offices, but only three of the rooms have been finished so far--the meeting room, Grantaire’s office, and the large office that the other partners (Musichetta, Jehan, and Combeferre) shared. Grantaire had been bullied into accepting his own office, but it _was_ nice when he needed to be alone for a moment. Or when he needed to be alone with Enjolras, apparently.

Enjolras leads him into his office, and closes and locks the door behind them. The room is dimly lit from the streetlight shining in through the windows. Neither of them turn on the lights, the room still bright enough to see pretty clearly. His desk is scattered with forms and resumes, with photos of paintings and sculptures peeking out of file folders labeled with names of interested artists. There are two plush chairs that face his desk, salvaged from a thrift shop by Jehan, along with a loveseat on the wall adjacent to the door. Grantaire had found that one himself, and is very pleased that his penchant for finding overly comfortable used couches is still intact. Across from the loveseat is a bookshelf that is slowly becoming overwhelmed with the books he’s amassed over the years. Some are art-related, most are not. He likes the eclectic air it brings to the room. He’d placed prints of his favorite paintings on the walls, accepting some photos and actual paintings from others to fill in gaps. Musichetta’s photo of the gallery at night right after the main floor had been finished seems to possess a glow itself, and he adores it.

He made this room as grounding and relaxing as possible, and he’s ashamed to admit how many times he’s needed to calm himself down in it, curled up in the corner of the loveseat.

 _Add another one to the tally,_ he thinks, sinking down into his usual corner of the loveseat and covering his face with his hands in a half-hearted attempt at disguising his need to hide as rubbing his face. Gentle hands wrap around his wrists, and he lets them be guided away from his face, locking eyes with Enjolras who is facing him from the floor between Grantaire’s knees. A brief flash of memory hits Grantaire from the night he drew out their tattoos, and he smiles softly in spite of himself. Enjolras’ finger is stroking the edge of the tattoo under his shirt sleeve.

“I know that you have a hard time seeing it, but I will remind you how remarkable you are for the rest of my life.” Grantaire sighs, looking down at their hands, entwined like everything else in their lives. It often terrifies Grantaire that his life is so mixed in with Enjolras’--their friends, jobs, places, activities--but it’s also exhilarating to be so _known_. He tries to focus on that most days, and he’s getting better at believing that he can have this, can be with Enjolras and have the life of which he never thought he was worthy.

But some days are bad days.

“You’ll just have to deal with it, R. I think you’re great and deserve to hear it.” And sometimes bad days are also good days.

“I guess I can suffer you that,” he replies, reaching out and pulling Enjolras’ hair tie out and fluffing his curls. He presses and rubs his fingers into Enjolras’ scalp, and Enjolras moans, eyes flicking up to Grantaire’s, seemingly darker than they were a few seconds earlier.

“Wanna get out of here? I know you said you had something planned for us at your place.”

“Plans have changed,” Enjolras murmurs, pulling Grantaire to his feet and pushing him up against the wall next to the couch. Grantaire finds himself being kissed like Enjolras can convince him of his worth without speaking. Enjolras believes in him so starkly, without doubt or reservations, and it’s overwhelming. Just when he’s about to break away, Enjolras does first.

“I’ve been watching you all fucking night in that perfect suit, wanting nothing more than to ruin it and then you.” Enjolras is panting as he speaks and presses his lips and tongue and teeth to Grantaire’s neck, making his way from just below Grantaire’s ear to the collar of his shirt. Enjolras slides his suit jacket off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, grasps his tie, and pulls, leading Grantaire across the room to his desk, pushing him back against it until he’s seated on the edge with Enjolras standing between his knees.

“I imagined slipping this tie over your eyes and eating you out until you forgot your name.” Grantaire moans at the thought as Enjolras loosens said tie and begins unbuttoning Grantaire’s shirt with deft fingers. “Jehan was right about this suit, it made me want to fuck you from the second you arrived.” Jehan had helped Grantaire choose this suit, going for a black shirt under a black jacket and the nicest hunter green tie Grantaire had ever touched. _”Enjolras will want to rip this off you immediately, but he won’t be able to, and won’t that be fun?”_ he had said, smirking, as Grantaire modeled it for him.

“So, fuck me, then. Or eat me out, whichever you prefer.” Grantaire is so hard, that any touch might undo him right there. With the anxiety of the day being leached from him by Enjolras’ single-minded desire to take him on his own desk, he knows that this will be a quick affair.

Enjolras must know it too.

“I bet I could make you come just from my tongue lapping at your hole,” he says, kissing down Grantaire’s bare chest. He slides his shirt the rest of the way off, and starts on his pants.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Grantaire gasps out as Enjolras wraps his lips around a nipple and sucks hard. One of his hands dips into Grantaire’s pants and squeezes tightly, pulling a keening noise out of Grantaire’s throat, high and desperate.

“Please, E, please,” he whispers.

“Please what, R?” Enjolras asks, voice teasing before swirling his tongue around the other nipple.

“Eat me out or fuck me or, god, fuck!” he cries out as Enjolras wraps a hand around his dick and strokes. Enjolras chuckles and does it again.

“Or what?” he prompts, but Grantaire isn’t able to speak just yet. The tension is back in his muscles, but it’s a different kind.

“Or _anything_ ,” Grantaire pleads, one hand resting on the nape of Enjolras’ neck, the other squeezing the arm attached to the hand that is stroking him _deliciously_.

“You’ll have to be more specific than that, R. What do you want?”

“I want to come,” Grantaire forces out, breathing heavily. Enjolras reaches up with his free hand and grabs Grantaire by the hair at the back of his head and leans him back, the pull and the stretch making him whimper.

“Whatever you want. You deserve it,” Enjolras tells him, pulling his other hand out of Grantaire’s pants and pressing him all the way down, so he’s lying back across his desk. Enjolras pulls his pants and underwear down his legs, letting them tangle at his ankles, and using them as a makeshift restraint. He brings Grantaire’s legs up and bends them back, holding the mass of clothing between his feet and locking his gaze with Grantaire’s for a split second. The smile on his face is wicked, and a shudder of excitement works its way down Grantaire’s spine.

“Color?” Enjolras asks.

“Green,” Grantaire replies. He is so very green.

“Hold your legs there until I tell you to let them go,” Enjolras instructs. Grantaire obeys, and Enjolras leans down and licks a firm stripe between his cheeks, rolling his tongue when he reaches Grantaire’s hole. Grantaire moans loudly and, if he had shame, he would feel it at how quickly this will be over. Enjolras licks across his hole again, moving up as he goes and sucking at the skin just behind his balls. He teases at them with the tip of his tongue, reaching up to stroke Grantaire’s cock lightly as his mouth continues to work at him.

Enjolras spears his tongue just barely inside of him, and Grantaire wails and thrusts his hips upward unconsciously.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Enjolras deadpans, stopping for a moment to look up into Grantaire’s face, “don’t come until I give you permission.” The grin he gives Grantaire is entirely evil, and then he is fucking Grantaire with his tongue and stroking his cock with a firm grip, twisting his thumb around the head on every upstroke.

“Enjolras, please,” Grantaire begs, the tightening in his belly growing with every second. Enjolras shakes his head, swirling his tongue around the rim as he does.

“ _Enjolras_ , I can’t hold it, fuck,” Grantaire groans, tightening his body up to hold his orgasm in for as long as possible.

“You can,” Enjolras assures him, teasing his balls again with his tongue. “You’re being so good for me, I know you can hold it. Just a little longer.” Ironically, the praise nearly undoes him, but he manages to hold it, trying and failing to think of anything other than what Enjolras is doing to him. His hands are stiff, squeezing at the pants still around his ankles as if he could get water out of the dry fabric. He focuses on the discomfort there, but Enjolras chooses that time to spit right on Grantaire’s asshole and slip a finger inside of him. He speeds up his strokes, licks the rim around his finger, and rubs against Grantaire’s prostate at the same time.

“Now, Grantaire,” Enjolras orders, and Grantaire obeys, once again. He comes so hard that he feels it hit him in the chin, and keeps coming, keeps moaning, keeps spasming for what feels like hours. Enjolras strokes him through it until Grantaire instinctively tries to pull away from overstimulation. He stops and pulls his cock out of his pants, stroking once, twice, three times before he’s coming all over Grantaire’s ass. He rests his forehead against Grantaire’s leg for a few seconds before gently removing Grantaire’s fingers from the fabric and easing his legs down. The desk is cold and sticky under his ass, but he doesn’t really have it in him to move. His legs are still shaking, and movement seems out of reach for him.

Enjolras pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleans Grantaire up as much as he can before wiping his own fingers off. He tucks his cock back into his pants and once he’s zipped back up, only his flushed face and swollen lips would give his debauchery away.

If Grantaire wasn’t floating in post-orgasmic bliss, he would be more concerned about his clothing.

Within fifteen or so minutes, Enjolras coaxes Grantaire off of his desk, picks up the files scattered on the floor where Grantaire was flailing, and helps him get redressed. The mirror in the bathroom reveals that he does, indeed, look like he has been fucked within an inch of his life, but he can’t bring himself to care. When they emerge from the back, hand-in-hand and rosy-cheeked, Jehan smirks and salutes them from behind the front desk. Combeferre rolls his eyes without any heat and waves as they make their way out the door.

Grantaire heads toward the little beater car he found a few months ago for $600 that mostly works, but Enjolras grabs his hand and pulls him back. They stand and face the front of the gallery, both silent for a few moments. When Enjolras speaks, it’s with a hushed reverence that Grantaire doesn’t know what to do with.

“Look at this place, Grantaire. I want you to _really_ look at it.” Enjolras’ voice is dripping with conviction despite the quiet tone. It’s too hard to meet the intensity of that gaze, like trying to win a staring contest with a supernova. So, he obeys and looks instead to the gallery. The meticulously squeegeed windows, the displays lovingly placed behind them. Combeferre and Jehan are sharing a drink behind the desk, Jehan gestures to something and smiles at Combeferre who grins back as he loosens his tie. He notices how successful they were in creating depth to the building by painting, opening up walls, and placing soft recessed lights in corners. He tries to see it through Enjolras’ eyes, and might succeed just a little.

“ _You_ did this. This was your idea. You found the building, you got the loan, you created this _wonder_ of a gallery, and did not relent once.” Grantaire opens his mouth to say, _No, I wanted to quit every day. And it was all of us, it was Combeferre, and Jehan, and Musichetta, and Eponine._ But before he can get the words out, Enjolras reaches out and rests his warm palm against Grantaire’s chest, just beneath his throat.

“Stop. You had help, sure. But it was your vision. I am so fucking proud of you, Grantaire. You have no idea.” Enjolras cradles Grantaire’s face with his hands, and pins him to the spot with his eyes. Those piercing, calculating eyes that can make Grantaire feel so many different things. “This place is a success, and it will continue to be a success. I know it. Please, don’t take that away from yourself. Allow yourself to be proud. You deserve it.” Grantaire’s face is wet, but for a long moment, he isn’t sure why. Then Enjolras wipes tears away with his thumbs, and he realizes that he’s crying. A long moment stretches between them as they do nothing but rest their heads together. Grantaire gathers himself and leans back, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

“Thank you, Enjolras. I--I can’t accept it, not fully, but thank you for saying it. And for believing it.” And, once more without knowing how it happens, Enjolras is kissing Grantaire as if he’s transferred all of the intensity from his gaze to his mouth, his lips, his tongue.

Grantaire doesn’t know how the hell he managed to start and still maintains a healthy relationship with Enjolras, but he is eternally grateful for it. With one last look to the gallery, they head to the car. Grantaire is going to sleep in tomorrow and spend the day with Enjolras in his bed. Maybe he’ll find out what it was that Enjolras had planned for him tonight.

He’s earned it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, my Grantaire-like confidence is bolstered by comments. Let me know if you liked this or any mistakes you might have seen in the comments here or in an ask on [Tumblr](http://agentxinfinity.tumblr.com). Also, if there's something else in this verse (or another one) you'd like to see, let me know that too. I'm getting back into it, and while I can't promise anything, you never know what might strike me with inspiration at 3AM and demand to be written. Love y'all. 💜💜


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